


Sing

by Zai42



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Captivity, Everyone Lives. Even Bertie. That Is A Threat., Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, Revolution, Sexual Violence, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Wilde's place in the new order of the world is firmly established.
Relationships: Apophis/Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 86
Kudos: 49
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	1. Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to flesh out the story I wrote in Promptober, Songbird. You shouldn't need to read that for this to stand on its own, though. Happy Wilde Week! :D

There were days when Oscar wished Zolf really had thrown Bertie from the airship. Usually these were days when he was particularly petulant, grousing about the lack of luxuries in the middle of the apocalypse, or butting heads with - well, any of the others, these days. Even Hamid’s patience with him seemed to have all but vanished.

Oscar had never felt any particular guilt over these vague flights of fancy, but now, with Bertie’s blade at his throat, his knees aching with how hard he had hit the floor, he felt a vicious stab of vindication. He didn’t bother to hide his sigh, and looked up at Bertie without hiding his emotions: pity, disappointment, a pointed lack of surprise. “Might I inquire what they offered you, Sir Bertrand?” he asked blandly.

“You’d only be insulted if I told you, Mr. Wilde,” Bertie replied.

The doors behind Bertie flung open, and two blue-veined strangers entered, and behind them was Wellington. Oscar sighed deeply, rolling his eyes heavenward before meeting Bertie’s gaze again, level and unimpressed. “Sir Bertrand,” he said, as he was flanked and dragged to his feet, “I want you to know I forgive you.”

Then pain burst behind his eyelids, and he slumped forward into blackness with the satisfying image of Bertie going furiously purple burning in his brain.


	2. Remembering

Oscar had been here before, under different circumstances. Once he’d knelt willingly in this chamber; now he had been forced to his knees once again, his head held in an unrelenting grip so he was forced to stare at the floor. He sighed, loud and rude and impatient. “Might I ask what exactly we’re waiting for?” he asked. When the blue-veined lackeys didn’t reply, didn’t relax their hold even an inch, he sighed again.

He stared down at the marble floor, at the veins of color swirling through it. He’d never given it more than a passing glance before; there had always been more pressing matters at hand. Now, it seemed, he had all the time in the world.

A new hand cradled his jaw, tilted his face up gently, and it burned like metal left to bake in the sun; Oscar let out a shuddering breath and made himself meet Apophis’ eyes with defiance.

Some distant part of him had hoped, with a vague and childish logic, that Apophis would be as infected as Guivres, that his eyes would be shot through with blue, his scales tarnished, his nailbeds discolored. He wasn’t. His eyes were as bright and clear as ever, the color of sunset on sand, and when he smiled, it was the smile Oscar remembered from before, almost kind, almost amused. Perhaps the only difference was that Oscar knew where the amusement stemmed from, now.

“We are pleased to see you again, dear Oscar,” Apophis said.

Oscar laughed despite the way Apophis’ voice made his back teeth ache. “We,” he repeated darkly, then gave a twisted, humorless smile of his own. “And what use, exactly, do you have for a captured revolutionary, O Great God-King?”

Apophis remained serene, unbothered by the acid in Oscar’s voice. He stroked a thumb over the jagged line of his scar, slow and deliberate, and Oscar forced himself not to move, not to give him the satisfaction of jerking away from him. “We admit it is sentimental,” Apophis said, “but we have missed your company.” He pulled his hand away; Oscar’s scar tingled with residual heat. “See to it that he is cleaned up, then bring him to our chambers,” Apophis said, speaking over Oscar’s head to someone behind him. He waved one clawed hand. “Go now. We have other matters to attend to.” 


	3. Treats

It was the first real bath he’d had in months, with hot water and soft soap and scented oils, and he could hardly enjoy it, given he was shackled to the faucet. Oscar studied his new cuffs so he wouldn’t have to watch himself be bathed by the blue-veined strangers. They were lovely - the cuffs, though the strangers as well - made of brass and onyx. Oscar couldn’t quite find it in himself to appreciate their artistry; he kept thinking about how many weapons they could have bought, how many meals, how many safe passages out of Europe.

The robes they draped him in afterwards were so fine and delicate they were nearly see-through, white as the midday sun, with a delicate gold chain looped around the neck. Not quite a collar. Not quite _not_ a collar.

Wellington and Bertie both looked him over, Wellington calm and detached, Bertie eyeing him like he’s something fattening - like he shouldn’t want to eat him, but he very much did anyway. Oscar stared blandly over their shoulders until Wellington grasped his chin and tilted his face into the sunlight. “No need to look so disappointed,” he said. Oscar closed his eyes. “Bertie here wanted to kill you.”

“Stopped clocks,” Oscar murmured.

There was the sudden rustle of movement, and Oscar opened his eyes in time to see Wellington with his hand closed around Bertie’s wrist. “Perhaps it would be best,” Wellington said, “if you appreciated the luxury you’ve been shown and _shut up for once.”_

Oscar smiled emptily.


	4. Survival

The first time Apophis summoned him to his chambers and commanded him to sing, Oscar laughed bitterly and told him to pick another trinket to entertain himself with. Apophis smiled, crossed the room in long, easy strides, and cradled Oscar’s neck in both hands, the long points of his thumbnails pressed delicately into the cartilage of his throat. Oscar considered throwing himself forward to cut his neck open on those claws, but couldn’t make himself do it. He breathed in deeply and held his captor’s gaze, mouth set, hands trembling finely.

“At least you know your place,” Apophis crooned. “You are our...trinket. Our music box. Our lovely caged songbird. And we have asked you sing for us. Or you will be discarded. Sir Bertrand would not be half as kind as we have been.”

He released his hold on Oscar’s throat and stepped back, gesturing with one elegant hand. Oscar swallowed in spite of himself, felt his throat work without the threat of a claw through it. And he sang.

_Oh, who killed the tyrant?_   
_I, said the Sparrow,_   
_with my bow and arrow,_   
_I killed the tyrant_

_Who watched him die?_   
_I, said the Magpie,_   
_with my bright clever eye,_   
_I watched him die_

_Who’ll dig his grave?_   
_I, said the Kite_   
_I will work through the night,_   
_I’ll dig his grave_

He expected to be stopped. Violently, perhaps. Apophis let him finish every verse and smiled the whole time, applauding when the last note faded into the mid-afternoon heat. “What a poor, foolish king,” Apophis said, circling Oscar once again, brushing one clawed hand through his hair, letting the soft strands fall through his fingers like water. “What a noble flock of avian heroes. However could he have withstood such bravery? Such camaraderie?” He leaned in close, his lips hot against Oscar’s scarred cheek as he spoke. “A pretty fantasy,” he breathed, “but we have eaten our share of sparrows, little songbird.”

He pressed a kiss, soft and chaste, to the curve of Oscar’s jaw, and Oscar closed his eyes and let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song our dear songbird sings is a modified version of Who Killed Cock Robin, and I put this note at the end of the chapter because I didn't want everyone to be thinking about how I used a song with the word "cock" in the title to make a metaphor about killing a tyrannical dragon.


	5. Viciousness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated tags!

Apophis responded to Oscar’s defiance with gentle caresses, a thumb stroking down the scar on his face, a hand on his hip, not improper but threatening it. Each night he pressed a kiss to Oscar’s temple and thanked him for the pleasure of his company, for the loveliness of his ballads, even as they became more and more vicious, more and more pointed in their purpose. After his own song had reduced Oscar to tears, he had kissed those from his cheeks, tender as any lover - moreso, even, than many Oscar had taken. He was chaste and gentle in every touch; he didn’t pull away, if Oscar flinched, but his hands never wandered anywhere unseemly, never did more than threaten harm, and only ever in deniable gestures.

And then Sasha came.

Oscar didn’t notice her, of course - not until she was at the gilded bars of his cage, hissing his name, and then he scrambled to his knees and grasped her hand through the bars, holding her jaw in his palm, his heart in his throat. “Wilde, mate, we thought you were dead,” she said breathlessly, letting him pull her forward to rest their foreheads together. “Gimme a minute, I’ll get you out of here - ”

“No, no, not yet, they’ll notice,” Oscar whispered urgently. “They’ll come for me soon, you’ll get caught.”

“I won’t get caught,” Sasha scoffed.

“We can’t,” Oscar begged. “Please, Sasha, go, tell the others - you have to tell them Bertie betrayed us, that Apophis _isn’t infected - ”_ They both froze at the sound of footsteps heading towards the door; Oscar squeezed Sasha’s hand until his knuckles went white. “Go, you can come back for me.”

“I won’t - ”

_“Go!”_

Sasha vanished, melting into the shadows somewhere; Oscar didn’t look for her, didn’t dare give away her position. He stood, schooled his features into blankness, and waited to be lead away by blue-veined strangers; instead, Apophis stepped into his chambers, and Oscar felt himself falter.

The dragon crossed the room in easy strides, a predator approaching cornered prey. “To what do I owe the pleasure, God-King?” Oscar asked, arching an eyebrow, his tone steady and cool despite the jackrabbit thump of his heart.

Apophis smiled at him and opened the bars of his cage with the wave of a claw. Oscar stayed breathlessly still as Apophis circled him, unsure of what he was waiting for but waiting tersely nonetheless. The blow, when it came, was sudden and quick, sending Oscar to his knees, Apophis following fluidly behind with one hand wrenching at his hair, twisting his neck. He pressed a burning bite of a kiss to Oscar’s lips, his free hand slitting open Oscar’s robe with a long tearing sound.

It was absurd, how exposed it made him feel. The fabric had been so sheer as to be useless anyway; having it ripped away shouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe it was just that it had been ripped. Maybe it was that Apophis had drawn blood. Maybe he had become too accustomed to being a treasured toy. He made a muffled sound against the fierce press of Apophis’ mouth, twitching against the iron grip on his hair, at his waist.

Apophis pulled back, releasing Oscar’s hair to backhand him, the crack of his hand connecting with Oscar’s jaw resounding across the marble floor. Oscar fell back, touching his jaw with vague shock, tasting blood, staring up in baffled dread. Apophis’ expression was the same calmly amused mask he wore always, unbothered by Oscar’s petulant defiance or, apparently, his own unexpected violence. He leaned in, ran his thumb over Oscar’s lips, sore and bruised from how roughly they had been kissed just a moment before.

“Sing for her, little songbird,” Apophis whispered.

For two eternities, Oscar went cold with horror. Then, snarling, he burst into futile struggles, and Apophis laughed like a call to battle, bore him down onto the cold floor, and made him to sing.


	6. Loyalty

Zolf and Grizzop had taken to sharing their watches. When Sasha staggered back to camp, Zolf was resting his head in Grizzop’s lap, not quite sleeping, fitful and frowning. He jerked awake as Sasha staggered up next to them, not bothering with stealth. “Sasha?” he rumbled, sitting up as Grizzop tucked away his bow. “What - ”

“He’s alive,” Sasha said. “Both of ‘em. Bertie and Wilde. He sold us out, Zolf, we have to get Wilde out - ”

“Wait, slow down,” Zolf said, at the same time Grizzop demanded, “Where is he?”

“Apophis has him,” Sasha said breathlessly. “We can’t leave him there. We can’t.”

* * *

“How brave and noble your magpie is,” Apophis had crooned, afterwards, kissing the inside of Oscar’s wrist, bruised from how it had been pinned to the floor. “To listen to your screams and then flit away to safety.”

Oscar had said nothing, and when he sang, the next night, it was about a highwaywoman slaying every corrupt guardsman who stood between her and her love. Apophis applauded, as he always did, then draped his arms around Oscar’s waist, pressing the pad of a thumb into the bruised curve of his neck. “Do you truly believe they will bother to come for you?” he asked, his voice low and pitying. “Do you believe they can stand against us?”

“Yes,” Oscar said blandly.

Apophis laughed. “We will make you watch their fates,” he whispered, and kissed Oscar’s throat. “And then you will sing us their dirge.”

* * *

Cairo had spent so many years as a place where nobody lived, and it showed in the stretches of abandoned houses, streets reclaimed by the desert, the doorways empty and dark and staring like accusing eyes. They stuck to these streets as they worked towards the center of the city, towards the towering monolith where Apophis had taken up his roost.

As the sun set, they ducked into one of the empty houses. It looked as if it had been left in a hurry; it looked as if it had burned for some time. Hamid let out a shaking breath, pressing a hand briefly to his eyes.

Cel was by the doorway when the singing started. They glanced up, looked around for the source, found none. They wandered into the street, not out in the open, just enough to peer around.

It seemed to be coming from the center of the city. Cel wasn’t sure how it could possibly carry so far.

Zolf appeared at their side. He was always grim these days, but his expression now was darker than usual, his brow furrowed, his hands tight around his glaive. “Mr. Smith?” Cel asked.

He shook himself, glanced up at them. “It’s a ship song,” he said.

“You know it?”

He nodded, eyes drifting back towards the pyramid in the center of the ruined city. “It means...” He trailed off as the song came to an end, its final note echoing down empty streets. “It means a storm on the way. It means danger.”

* * *

“You really do think they’re coming, hm?”

Oscar glanced at Bertie out of the corner of his eye. “I do.”

“Why?”

Oscar turned to face him fully. “How many times have they saved your life, Sir Bertrand?” he asked. Bertie made a vague, unconcerned gesture with his hand. Oscar frowned and leaned against the bars of his cage. “How does that play into your schemes of heroism, by the way? From where I’m standing, betraying your friends for the empire does not exactly a folk hero make.”

“Well from where you’re standing, there’s bars in the way,” Bertie said lightly. “I expect that rather changes your perspective, Mr. Wilde.”

“On that, at least,” Oscar said dryly, “we are in perfect agreement.”

* * *

Sasha woke up to Azu healing her. “What happened?” she mumbled.

“Apophis sent people after us,” Azu replied. “Hold still, you took a bad hit to the head.”

Sasha grunted and let Azu run her palm down the curve of her skull, her magic humming softly along her skin. “How’d we get away?”

“Hamid, uhm,” Azu said.

“Right,” said Sasha, “and so how’d we get away?”

Azu eased her upright. “We had some help,” she said. “They said...they said they recognized us. From the songs.”


	7. Truth

He wasn’t surprised when Apophis called for him; the sounds from outside had been raging since daybreak, the dull and distant roar of battle, slowly growing closer. Oscar smiled like a skull as he was lead to the glass-encased top of the pyramid. He hadn’t been here before, but from this high vantage point, he could see out over the city, see where Cairo had been retaken, where the revolutionaries had set up barricades.

“They’re coming for you, little songbird,” Apophis said.

“They’re coming for _you,”_ Oscar corrected.

Apophis glanced at him over his shoulder, appraised him carefully, then smiled, still calm and collected. Outside, the battle raged ever closer. “Let them come,” he said, and in the space of a blink, his human form was melted away.

The wings that blotted out the sun were mottled with blue. Oscar stared, horror rising in his gut like nausea, and for a moment - _don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe_ \- he was frozen in place, as if that would save him.

“Are you afraid, little songbird?” Apophis asked, lowering his great head to peer down at Oscar with one massive, yellowed eye. “So was my dear sister, at the end. She fought so valiantly. You would have been proud of her.”

Oscar ran. It was futile, he knew, but remaining in this place, with this creature, for a moment longer was unthinkable, and fear urged him forward in a desperate bid for escape. He screamed, wordless and anguished, as a claw swiped him off his feet, a cat toying with its prey. Oscar rolled onto his back and felt his heart seize with the sudden certainty that he was going to die here, crushed under the foot of the massive thing towering over him, insignificant and unremembered. He realized, distantly surprised, that he was murmuring frantic fragments of prayers beneath his breath - to Artemis, to Aphrodite, to anyone who might listen, _please, please, please._

The dragon opened his jaws. Oscar closed his eyes.

There was the sound of glass splintering, then shattering - a voice screaming _“APOPHIS!”_ as the ceiling came down.

Oscar opened his eyes in time to see a shard of glass the size of his head explode into dust against a shimmering shield above him. Apophis had twisted, snarling, a gush of flame licking between his teeth; a tiny, gleaming streak of fire and magic darted around his head, wings of unblemished brass beating fiercely, catching the light of the rising sun.

“Come on!” a voice yelled, very close by, and then a pair of hands was hauling him upright, dragging him backwards. “Come on, I’ve got you,” Zolf said breathlessly, and Oscar clung to him, staggering away from Apophis and Hamid to kneel behind a fallen chunk of rock, where Sasha grabbed his wrists and began picking the locks of his cuffs.

“What,” Oscar managed. He was, he realized belatedly, shivering, and sagged like his strings had been cut when Zolf cradled his jaw. “How,” he whispered.

“Weren’t gonna leave you,” Grizzop said; Oscar looked up to see him standing sentry, arrow nocked and ready, his eyes locked on Apophis, one ear tilted towards Oscar. “You hurt?”

“Better now,” Oscar said. Over his shoulder there was an explosion and Cel cackling wildly; the cuffs on his wrists clicked open, and Sasha rubbed at the red marks that had been left on his skin.

“Need healing?” Zolf asked.

“No,” Oscar said. He closed his eyes briefly, felt the tingling rush of his magic returning like blood flooding a sleeping limb. He stood; at his side, Grizzop fired three arrows in rapid succession, grinning wide and vicious. Sasha had vanished again, somehow finding shadows to hide in despite the glare of the rising sun. Zolf’s glaive lit up with a rush of heat and he squeezed, briefly, at Oscar’s wrist before grasping it in both hands.

_I’ll show you songbird,_ Oscar thought, and turned, and sang.

* * *

There was work to be done, still. Bertie and Wellington were gone, lost in the chaos of battle. Cel wanted to autopsy Apophis, but Hamid had suggested they do so outside of city limits, which meant his body would need to be moved. “Would you need him in one piece?” Oscar had asked.

“No, Mr. Wilde, I most certainly would not,” Cel had replied, and the smile they had given him made him very glad, not for the first time, that they were on the same side.

Curie would need to be informed. The remaining infected had gone still and placid when Apophis had died, and they would need treatment. There was so much left to do.

Oscar didn’t move to detangle himself from Grizzop and Zolf. They hadn’t let him out of their sight since the pyramid, and Oscar couldn’t bring himself to find it overbearing.

They’d thought him dead, Sasha had told him. It had been weeks - months, perhaps - that he’d been gone.

Grizzop’s claws scraped over his scalp in a slow rhythm; Zolf’s palm rested over his heart, thumb swiping over skin in time with its beating. They had thought him dead.

“Still with us, Wilde?” Grizzop asked.

Oscar nodded. “Not for much longer if you keep doing that,” he said, nuzzling up into Grizzop’s palm, bringing his own hand up to grasp at Zolf’s.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to sleep a bit,” Zolf rumbled. He kissed the back of Oscar’s neck, over a fading bruise Apophis had left. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“I know,” Oscar murmured, and let his eyes drift closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. :) Thank you all for making this Wilde Week so much fun!


End file.
